


The Life That I Chose

by captaineifersucht



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Cannibalism, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Possessiveness, Rage-induced murder, Recovery, Rimming, Slow Build, post-mizumono
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-02 20:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaineifersucht/pseuds/captaineifersucht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal supplements his loneliness with copies of Will. As the profiler recovers both physically and emotionally back in Baltimore, Hannibal finds himself unable to control his jealousy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: Prompt: Will never goes to Europe to search for hannibal. And while hannibal is drowning himself in will substitutes, (cough cough Anthony cough) Will gets himself a man. (Insert virtually any male character here) and basically the whole fic is just how salty Hannibal is over this

Hannibal often finds himself taking second glances at men with dark curls.

Sometimes, the reaction is minute--a thrumming in his blood, twitching of tendons. He won’t make a full double-take. His self control is better than that. Hannibal flexes his fingers and continues walking, despite the hollow feeling that remains in his gut. Bedelia sniffs at his side.

On other days, such as when he happens across a young man with a stubbled jaw and horn rimmed glasses, Hannibal loses his resistance. The boy goes to the university in Florence, where Hannibal lectures. He is at least a decade younger than the men Bedelia expects to enter their apartments. His eyes aren’t haunted, skin tanned from years in Italy.

No one ever meets all of Hannibal’s requirements, so he beds the boy.

He ignores the cries of papà, tries to imagine the slender form underneath him as a more muscular one. Aesthetically, the young man is soft and supple, very beautiful. Not what Hannibal wants, when he knows there could be scars under his hands, power and darkness thinly veiled by skin.

Will had always been capable of such violence.

\---

When Will wakes, his first thought is of Abigail. He can feel her blood flowing from between his fingers, her pulse weakening, and the gushes of liquid coming slower. Her eyes, clear as a summer sky, dull. His abdomen throbs.

He registers beeping. Scattered thoughts race through his mind--Jack and Alana, blood on the floorboards and glass broken across concrete--Hannibal.

His eyelids feel like lead. They're heavy like his intestines were, it's an effort to open them.

Will finds himself on an uncomfortable mattress dressed in thin hospital pyjamas. The fabric doesn't cling to him with sticky blood. The room is fluorescently lit, not encompassed in a foreboding dark. He hears his own breathing, no longer wet and ragged but still stressed. Abigail doesn't lie gurgling to his left, her body convulsing and shuddering in death.

No, to his left is someone else, alive and moving around frantically. His brain is still fuzzy from being asleep for an undetermined amount of time, but Will can recognize the figure. Average height, thick, brown hair, broad shoulders, and tanned skin. He remembers this back walking up his stairs, to his shower.

Will blinks, tries to sit up. The man who was facing away from him to get the attention of the nurses rushes back to his side with concern on his face. Will blinks again. He almost laughs.

" What the fuck are you doing in my room?"

Frederick Chilton pouts at him.

\---

It's a Friday evening when Hannibal meets Antony Dimmond. The stars are bright in a deep blue sky. There's music and champagne, enough to make the professor pliant and loose-lipped. Hannibal imagines that Will would behave similarly with enough whisky.

Chatting with Antony leads Hannibal to believe he may have found someone more suitable than the student. He had warmed Hannibal's sheets once more the previous week, actions illustrating just how desperate the boy was for fatherly approval. Hannibal knows he will soon be unable to maintain the facade he puts on for the young man. Antony seems easier.

On Sunday, Hannibal discovers through Tattlecrime that Will Graham is alive. He glances over the note at the bottom which acknowledges the survival of Alana Bloom, Jack Crawford, and the exonerated Frederick Chilton. At this point, Hannibal needs to get his mind off of Will Graham—to ignore the painful feeling that blooms deep in his chest when he looks at the picture of the profiler gaunt and bandaged in his hospital bed.

Bedelia seems unhappy to find that Hannibal has drunk most of an expensive merlot. It's been an hour since he shut the cover decidedly on his iPad. There is a second bottle, empty, near the kitchen sink.

She doesn't ask what made him so distraught. Hannibal pulls a face when she takes the decanter from him and upends the remaining liquid into a second glass.

The room remains silent as she takes sips that are large enough to be considered impolite. Hannibal waits for her to broach the topic that has put him in a foul mood. Bedelia idly turns pages of a psychiatric journal. 

“ Today I read an article concerning Will Graham,” Hannibal starts. He watches Bedelia’s eyebrows raise, the sigh caught in her throat. Her eyes remain trained on the printed text.

“ Shocking.”

Hannibal continues on without regard for his companion’s disinterest. “ He is awake and alive in Baltimore.”

The wine warms his body. He feels uncharacteristically out of control, old feelings of betrayal rising in his chest. Hannibal recalls the feeling of Will’s jaw, wet with rain, cupped in his palm. Will’s warm blood pouring over his knuckles, the weight of his body collapsing into Hannibal’s arms.

Will was supposed to be here with him, absorbing the beauty that was Florence. They were to experience an unhindered life together. 

Hannibal’s nostrils flare when he gains the energy to stand.

“ I shall arrange a feast in honor of the occasion.”

\---

Will doesn’t know how to react to his new routine. 

Twice daily he attends physical therapy. It took him days to allow the therapist to touch anywhere near the jagged edge of scar tissue slashed over his otherwise flat stomach. The pain pills in their plastic dosing cups appear less often. 

Perhaps the most disorientating change is the regular companionship.

Chilton rotates between his, Alana's, and Jack's rooms. Jack is on the verge of discharge, Alana still nearly catatonic with shock due to her paralysis. Will tags along occasionally. He finds that being with Frederick is easier than having to face the broken bodies of his friends. 

Frederick has no expectations of their conversations. Sometimes he brings food. Often, they sit in silence; Will too tired to speak and Frederick not forcing him.

On those afternoons, Frederick reads bodice-ripper paperbacks in the sunlight and Will watches him. He maps out the craters and strings of scars that line the psychiatrist's left cheekbone. The tissue strains into creases and wrinkles when he smiles. Will's own lips tilt upwards in a wobbly replication of the other man's happiness. If Frederick notices, he doesn't say anything. Will thinks the glazed over look in his eyes helps his cover.


	2. Chapter 2

The next article on Tattlecrime concerning Will Graham includes a picture of him sitting up in bed. Frederick Chilton is seated next to him. Sandwiches and drinks are between them. There is laughter in their eyes, a flash of teeth shining in the fluorescent light.

\---

Hannibal kills a man with tanned skin, dark brown hair, and a smug smile. He grills the heart and serves it to Anthony with root vegetables and a vinaigrette.

“ I’ve written you a piece of poetry.” Anthony’s eyes, grey like a foggy morning, shine dark with excitement, an eagerness to please. He has a small smile set upon his lips. 

The room is lit with candles and decorated with morbidity. Bedelia has taken a weekend trip to Switzerland, leaving Hannibal to do as he pleases. She had left before he had the opportunity to convey his distress, his unhappiness spurred by Freddie Lounds' photography. Perhaps, she’d read the article before he did and fled early.

Hannibal smiles when Anthony so earnestly eats the heart. " An entire poem? In less than a decade?" 

The wine disappears in measured amounts. They eat three courses, all of which are praised by Anthony. Hannibal allows the young professor's foot to rub against his calf. He indulges each touch, every word, with a gentle smile.

He's yet to take Anthony to bed. The man is an image of Will, only more willing than the profiler had ever been. Anthony doesn't shy away from Hannibal's affections, he craves the small teasing touches laid on his forearm, the small of his back, the top of his thigh. It’s the chase Hannibal always wanted, although Anthony is not quite the mongoose. 

Hannibal knows this charade won't last long--Anthony knows he isn't Dr. Fell, knows that he and Bedelia certainly do not share a bed. He sincerely hopes that Anthony doesn’t force his hand. Despite the gray coloring his hair, the professor has sharp wit and a quick tongue, his jokes bordering on the darkness that Will used to offer. Hannibal delights in his company, the poor substitute that it is. He supposes that plans should be made to kill Anthony, recipes pulled and dishes organized.

For now, he can pretend that he had slaughtered Frederick Chilton and is sharing a meal of him with Will. A Will who knows him and returns to their dinner table without hesitation, who seeks out Hannibal’s attention in public and private. 

\---

Will gets the news of his discharge in the late morning, nearly four months after he’s entered the hospital with his insides on the outside. The doctor comes in while he’s reading the morning paper. His coffee from breakfast is still half full, lukewarm. Sunlight bathes the room, chasing away the chill remaining from dawn.

Dr. Madison brings with her a packet of instructions regarding his aftercare, sample sachets of ointment that will help with his scarring, and fresh cups of coffee that don’t taste bitter and watered down. She explains only what Will requires clarification on, not wasting either of their time on formalities. Of all of the physicians Will has interacted with in the last few years, he thinks he will rather miss this one. It feels like an eternity since someone was upfront and honest with him, especially about his health.

They spend an hour chatting. She leaves Will with a comforting pat on the shoulder when the nurses come in to change his bandages 

The silence that remains when Will is alone is deafening. He can feel it fill up the room, surrounding him. It’s a pressure on his chest, compressing his lungs, forcing out his breath in a giddy sigh.

Will feels at a loss, with no outlet to express his glee through. Frederick is due to appear with food at some point soon, a reprieve from the cardboard and sawdust that the hospital provides. 

There’s a knock on the doorframe, the noise bringing Will out of his revere. He smiles when the familiar face appears around the corner. Frederick has grown a healthy amount of stubble that cuts off around the crater of scar tissue. The tan on his skin is slightly faded, probably from spending so much time in the hospital instead of outside. More gray hairs have sprouted in his bangs. Will finds them endearing.

“ I brought Indian.”

Frederick sets a plastic bag on Will’s bedside table and begins to remove two black containers. Will wants to tell him, he feels the excitement jumping in his tendons. He wants Frederick to know about his discharge, but fear creeps up his spine. Their routine has become a comforting constant in his life, a necessary component to his healing. When he leaves, will this end?

“ Hey, everything alright?” Frederick sits in his usual spot next to the bed, sets his hand on the quilt by Will’s thigh. His eyes are full of concern. “ I saw the doctor on her way out.”

Will looks up from the fresh gauze on his abdomen, tries to ignore the cramping in his gut. It’s psychological, the pain that feels like a knife. He knows this, and when his eyes meet Frederick’s, he knows that his anxiety over possible abandonment is just as unfounded. This relationship isn’t temporary, it’s not a band-aid. 

He smiles, with his teeth this time. “ They’re letting me go home. Tomorrow.”

The emotion that blooms across Frederick’s face is contagious. His eyes fill with light, excitement. Will feels it, deep in his chest. 

What he doesn’t recognize, the emotion he misses, is whatever makes Frederick lunge forward, take Will’s face in hand, and bring their lips together in a bruising kiss. It’s passionate, sincere, and Will doesn’t know how to react. He hesitates, apparently too long. By the time Will leans into the kiss, Frederick is retreating quickly. 

Will watches as Frederick runs a hand over his face, shakes his head, and stands up. He watches the other man move to the window, shoulders hunched. But this time, he doesn’t hesitate. 

Doubt is radiating off of Frederick when Will walks in his direction, halting to stand behind him.

“ You didn’t have to stop.” Will’s voice is barely more than a whisper.

Frederick half turns his torso, so they can look at each other properly. “ Kissing you?”

“ Any of this. Lunch, hanging out, talking. I don’t want it to end, now that I’m leaving.” 

“ Why would it?” Frederick begins to usher him back to the bed. 

Will opts for the second chair instead. He’s no longer a cripple. “ I don’t know. No controlled environment.”

“ That would make things easier, then. No visiting hours,” Frederick hands him a bowl of chicken curry and rice. “ No unwelcome visitors. We could actually go out of this room.”

“ Are you asking me out on a date?”

Frederick’s smile is cocky, self assured now that it’s clear that his advances are welcome. “ You deserve better than take-out and my leftovers. How about Friday? I’ll swing by yours.”

There’s a tightening in Will’s abdomen that is unfamiliar. It’s a pleasant feeling, not the pain brought by nightmares or physical therapy. Will’s smile widens. He leans to whisper in Frederick’s ear. “ Promise not to show up covered in blood this time?”

When Frederick laughs, Will presses a kiss to his throat where the tendons are jumping and he can feel the life flowing in his blood. Somehow, they’ve both survived Hannibal Lecter. Who said that they had to subject themselves to suffering for the rest of their lives? 

\---

Freddie Lounds has been practically living in Johns Hopkins Hospital for what feels like half a century. It’s boring as hell, the food is terrible, and she’s tired of wearing scratchy, unflattering scrubs to pass off as a transport nurse in order get information on Will Graham. For the few pictures she’s gotten, though, have been worth it. 

And it’s days like today, where she catches photos from the camera in the breast pocket of her scrub top, that assure her of a stable career. Perhaps Tattlecrime has become more of a celebrity tabloid recently when concerning the status of special agent Will Graham, but people _love_ it. Now, it’s more than his medical condition. 

She has the first look at the profiler’s love life with his former psychiatrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to get a chapter a week! might end up being more than three, but i'm having a surgery tomorrow and then we're bringing home a new family member (a not so tiny pup) on saturday, and my dissection class begins on monday, so things might get busy soon!
> 
> hopefully we all enjoy the return of will tonight!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony invests himself in his relationship with Hannibal. Frederick and Will are brought closer together by outside pressure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what with a new dog, a lot of time spent working on my cadaver, and many hours in an oxycodone-induced haze, this has been slow going! 
> 
> hopefully this helps with the recent news :( next chapter should be swift. who knows when this nonsense will end.

Will has become a pro at ignoring the media, especially when it is published by Freddie Lounds. It comes as no surprise when journalists and photographers swarm him as a nurse assistant wheels him out of the hospital and to the cab that will take him home. He would prefer to walk, but it’s policy. 

What does catch him off guard are are the questions.

“ How long have you and Frederick Chilton been seeing each other, Will?”

“ Are you two planning on bringing Hannibal Lecter to justice together?”

“ Mr. Graham, did you start dating before or after you were stabbed?”

He blinks into the flashes, feels his stomach churn. The hospital employees can’t clear a path fast enough. Between mumbles of “no comment,” Will ducks his head and hides his blush. When the door to the taxi closes behind him, muffling the din, he finally exhales.

Frederick left the previous afternoon after they ate and played a game of euchre. While the physical contact that initiated their deeper conversation was more than welcome, they did little more than hug upon Frederick’s departure. He couldn’t recall whether the blinds had been open or closed in his room, but knew that none of his healthcare team had interrupted their time. They were under nondisclosure agreements through the FBI to not discuss Will’s status or treatment. 

Even as he types his own name, as well as Frederick’s, into Google on his smartphone, Will knows what website the article will be published on. 

Freddie Lounds has provided the world with a clear view into Will’s hospital room. Within the borders, Frederick’s face is lit up in a bright smile. Will’s is half visible in the join of Frederick’s shoulder and neck, but the features are unmistakably his. At the bottom of the article is a second picture of them, hands clasped across the bedside table, cards scattered between them.

He doesn’t scroll farther to see the comments. He sends a link of the article to Frederick and turns off his phone.

\---

It rains heavily in Italy when Hannibal slaughters the meat for his next meal with Anthony. The Latino tourist provides plenty of additional lean meat that he dissects and packages for future recipes.

He serves sous vide short ribs with a beetroot and potato mash three days later. The bottle of 1985 Brunello di Montalcino disappears between the two of them. Unlike his dinners with Will, Anthony requires no explanation as to why the wine’s acidity will help in enjoying the fattier cut of meat. Anthony brings it up at the sight of the label, before Hannibal can taste the words on his tongue. 

When Hannibal reaches to clear the dessert plates, Anthony’s fingers encircle his wrist. 

“ You killed Dr. Fell.” His words come out with a tone of curiosity, not accusation. “ And his wife.”

Hannibal stacks the plates and arranges the dirtied silverware atop of crumbs and remaining smears of a mixed berry reduction. Considering Anthony as a long term investment is absurd. While his acceptance makes their relationship easier, Hannibal knows there is no undercurrent of darkness flowing through his blood vessels. He cannot shape Anthony to become what he wants of Will. The story will end with Anthony on his dinner table, not at it.

He pauses in cleaning to address Anthony, placing his free hand on the poet’s narrow shoulder. 

“ I was in a position that offered no other options.”

“ What position are you in now?” Anthony’s smile is bright white and wide, his eyes sparkling.

Hannibal returns the plates to the tabletop. He uses both hands to massage the side of Anthony’s neck, lowers his mouth to breathe words into Anthony’s ear. “ Whatever position you’d like to put me in.” 

It’s delicious, to feel the rapid tension seize Anthony’s deltoids, tightening under his fingertips. A moment later, the resistance melts. Anthony turns to press a kiss to Hannibal’s lips, catching them. It’s hungry, but without desperation. Hannibal feels Anthony’s pulse thump under his fingers, fast and strong. He feels the other man’s breath hot against his cheekbone when the kiss turns sloppy with lust.

The silverware clatters to the floor when Anthony pushes out of his chair. Hannibal finds, to his surprise, that he doesn’t entirely mind.

\---

Will calls Frederick on Friday morning when the sun is still rising, the dawn a dull gray. 

“ I know we said dinner, but did you want to come over earlier?”

“ Mm,” Frederick yawns into the receiver. “ Can I have my coffee first?”

Will places his forearms on the railing of his front porch and leans forward. The air is cool, tendrils winding underneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He laughs softly at the image of Frederick’s face still soft with sleep, eyes glazed and muscles lax. It’s a picture he’s been privy to before, when the sunlight streaming into his hospital room created a warm, soothing environment--suitable for napping.

“ No rush. Pack some clothes. I wanna get off the grid, at least for the weekend.”

Frederick grunts, his sheets rustle. The line is silent for half a minute before Frederick makes an uncertain noise. “ You want me to come with you?”

“ Well, yeah.”

“ Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Will can hear Frederick’s smile. He looks out at the few dogs who have yet to be tired out, chasing each other in the open field. “ Maybe when we’re in the car.”

“ I’ll be there at eleven.”

“ See you.” Will can feel additional words bubble up under his lips. He’s glad when the dial tone sounds in his ear. 

\---

It takes nearly an hour and a half to drive to the Shenandoah National Park entrance with the traffic. They chat idly about the weather. Winston drools on Frederick’s shoulder. 

Thirty miles after they cross into the park’s territory, Frederick stops staring at the greenery to look at Will. “ Where, exactly, are we going?”

“ Camping.”

“ We passed the campgrounds.”

Will glances over to flash a smile at him. “ There’s a smaller one, a bit farther down. It’s tucked away from everything, close to some waterfalls.” 

“ Oh.” Frederick sounds like he’s trying to figure something out, reading into Will’s every word.

“ I want us to be alone. If that’s okay.”

The responding smile tugs at Frederick’s scar. Their fingers intertwine on the center console.

\---

There’s more stars than Baltimore in the wilderness, even more than Wolf Trap. The night is cloudless, a waning gibbous bright with visible craters. Frederick marvels at it. Will refills his glass of whiskey to see the light reflected in his irises, enhance the spark shining there. 

Their fire has burnt down to glowing embers. Will contemplates placing another log, more kindling atop of it, but the expression on Frederick's face suggests they'll retire to the tent before the fire would have a chance to rebuild itself. He knows there will be no more marshmallows roasted over the smoky heat. The conversation between them slowed as the chill of the evening brought their bodies closer together, huddled for warmth. 

When Frederick looks Will in the eye, the glassiness left by alcohol fades. His cheeks are ruddy, not with being too close to the flame, not with the warmth of liquor. Will knows that blush. He cups his hand around the warm skin, uses the leverage to draw their faces together--foreheads pressed flush, frozen noses side by side. He can taste the whiskey on Frederick’s breath, millimeters away from his lips.

The alcohol gives him a false sense of security, induces enough bravery in him to spill thoughts best left alone. 

“ I’m glad you visited me when I was sleeping.” His words exhale in clouds between them.

“ You deserved more than what he gave you.”

Will fit his fingers in the dimpled scar tissue. Frederick doesn’t flinch away from him.

“ So did you. More than what I gave you, too. I was cruel to--”

Frederick laughs. “ You were doing your job. I toyed with you before, it was so fu--”

“ How ‘bout we call it even?” 

Will lets Frederick flatten his back against the dirt, his jacket riding up. Fingers card into his hair, a palm grabs the newly exposed skin of his hip. Will can feel Frederick’s thumb there, caressing the tail end of his own scar. 

The fire reignites on a dead twig, engulfing wood and leaves, as their lips meet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal realizes that he is unable to twist Anthony into whatever position he desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut # 1 :) enjoy, ya filthy animals.
> 
> Warning: Dubious consent near the end.

Anthony slips out of his clothing easily, unknotting ties and loosening buttons between kisses. Hannibal watches as tanned skin is revealed to him, sparse chest hair and a lean frame. He takes his time in folding his own suit, sparing a glance at Anthony’s flushed face, before joining the poet in bed. 

When Anthony opens his mouth to speak, Hannibal covers it with his own. He swallows the words, presses his tongue past Anthony’s teeth. Imagining Will beneath him is harder than expected. 

Where muscles should be defined, scars riddled, Anthony offers smooth, unblemished skin. He is more vocal, even without words, than Hannibal could ever imagine Will being. The body below him doesn’t feel right, the smell isn’t tainted by a terrible aftershave. Frustration itches under Hannibal’s skin.

He runs his hands down Anthony’s sides, caressing the hard loop of his ribs. Gripping his hips, Hannibal guides him to turn over. 

“ Took forever to get you to bed, and now you rush?,” Anthony laughs, the heaving of his diaphragm stuttering into a groan when Hannibal kneads his cheeks before parting them. “ I can show you a better time than this, given the opportunity.”

But Hannibal doesn’t give him it. He presses a well-lubed finger to the tight ring of muscles until it gives away. His other hand rests on the base of Anthony’s spine, a weight to ensure he stays put. 

“ There will be time for slower explorations,” Hannibal lies. He presses a chaste kiss to the notch of Anthony’s cervical vertebrae. 

The muscles of Anthony’s posterior thigh tense and flex with the intrusion. His breathing becomes increasingly labored, soft whimpers of discomfort slipping from his lips. Hannibal can’t help his smile, for he can easily picture Will under him here, struggling to control his reactions.

“ G-god, please.” 

Hannibal offers a second digit as Anthony writhes and pants into the sheets. The poet looks over his shoulder, the gray of his irises a thin line around blown pupils, lips plump and bitten, a flush extending from his cheekbones beyond the visible line of his neck. He could be a beautiful subject, rendered in oil.

Anthony presses his face back into the pillow when Hannibal bends a finger against his prostate, presses his ass back like an offering. His moaning becomes incoherent once again.

“ Please,” he repeats in a gasp.

“ Did you not wish for this to be slow?” Hannibal withdraws his hand to look at Anthony’s pink hole, now loosened. “ Make up your mind, dear.”

The body below him is already shining with a fine layer of sweat. His mind palace contains many versions of Will drenched in sweat, shivering. He finds no difficulties imagining his evenings spent with Will rather than Anthony when they share a meal or converse over drinks. 

This territory, flirtation escalated into physical intimacy, is something new to Hannibal. There is no substitution that comes from his memories of Will--how is he supposed to know what Will looks like bathed in pleasure, if his hips cant in need, what timbre his voice changes to when he becomes overstimulated? 

A flash of rage comes over Hannibal at the thought. 

He doesn't hear what pace Anthony prefers. It doesn't matter. Hannibal slips on a condom, pours a generous amount of slick onto his hand, across his length. He ignores the swaying bob of the hips below him, the sweet pleas for relief. 

Pressing into Anthony offers warmth and tightness, a pleasurable slide that ends with his groin firmly pressed against the poet's rounded ass. Again, Hannibal is struck by the lack of familiarity. Situations with Anthony were never exact replicas of the memories made with Will, but Hannibal could at least supplement the experience with Will's quirks and mannerisms. 

But he didn't know what those habits were under the sheets. They had never reached that level of intimacy. Where Hannibal would normally allow Anthony to act as he saw fit, he finds himself unable to stand the idea of the poet contributing to this experience. 

Anthony cannot be a surrogate. 

The younger man moans beneath him once more, the noise enough to make Hannibal feel sick. He’s overcome by the differences now obvious to him, all of the ways that Anthony is so unlike Will. The angle of his jaw, graying streaks in his hair, the lack of callouses on his hands. Hannibal knows he’s deluded himself for long enough, tricked his mind into seeing only the physical attributes he wanted to find, masking Anthony’s personality with dismissals and carefully guided conversation topics. 

Hannibal covers the smaller frame entirely with his own, begins to thrust at a punishing speed. If he closes his eyes tight enough, he can almost imagine the form beneath him as a more muscular one. Anthony laughs desperately, wiggles back in an attempt to take control of their arrangement. His chuckles quickly dissolve into hiccuped cries, breathy noises when the rhythm continues.

Words spill out of Anthony’s mouth, but Hannibal cannot comprehend them. He wishes for this experience to be a blank slate, to use the template in order to construct perfection. The sound of Anthony’s voice is irrelevant, a distraction. Hannibal carefully shifts to balance his weight on one forearm, without breaking stride, while freeing up a hand to cover Anthony’s mouth with. 

Somehow, the pleasurable noises from the poet increase at this. Hannibal can feel Anthony’s labored breathing against his palm, hot and moist. He reaches down to touch the other man’s throbbing erection, brushing his fingers along the prominent, pulsating underside vein. 

“ You can cum without me touching you, can’t you?” Hannibal pulls his hand back to feel the sticky head twitch towards his fingertips. He swipes his thumb over the weeping slit once more, listens to the eager groaning below him. Anthony’s head nods quickly. Beneath his fingers, Hannibal can feel the poet smiling. 

Will would need more guidance than this. Manual stimulation, soft whispering to aid his mind--he would need to be surrounded, overwhelmed by the experience. 

Hannibal angles his hips, thrusts relentlessly into Anthony’s prostate. The sounds he forces from the man’s lungs will never be what he’s seeking. His lips part against the pale skin of Anthony’s neck, teeth digging in. The flesh resists for a moment before giving away to warm tissue and hot blood. 

Anthony’s moans stutter. It isn’t what he wants. 

His control slips away so easily. The sex is no longer just rough, it becomes brutal. There is no rhythm, no desire to accomplish anything other than achieving his own orgasm. 

He doesn’t notice when Anthony’s semen spills in spurts across the sheets, or soon after when the breathing against his skin became more level, limbs heavy and motionless. The ring of muscles spasms around his length for seconds before that, too, ceases. It’s enough to push Hannibal over the edge, to feel the pleasure coiling in his abdomen snap suddenly outwards in a rush of blood and endorphins. There’s blood dripping from his chin, Will’s name on his lips.

Hannibal notices belatedly that Anthony has passed out beneath him. The gash on his shoulder will need stitching, the bed cleaned. He briefly considers using amphetamines to wake the poet, urge him out of the house. 

Stretching his limbs, Hannibal ties off the condom and looks back at the prone body on his bed, at the blood painted over his skin. It’s a beautiful picture, but not in the same way that Will was after a seizure. Anthony relished in Hannibal’s darkness, allowed himself to be ravished by it, but could not endure it. Would Will have been able to? If the empath was in Anthony’s place, would haunted, lucid eyes be staring at him?

Realization washes over Hannibal, a cold and empty sensation hollowing his gut. He finds that there is nothing concerning Will Graham that he can know for sure. No personality traits that he can force onto Anthony, no roleplay that he can manipulate between the two of them. The only actions he can anticipate are his own. 

He considers Will bleeding out onto the hardwood floor, from a wound that is not surgical.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filthy smut pt 2 ;)

Will lets Frederick manhandle him into a flat position, allows himself to be completely covered by the weight of his former psychiatrist's torso, caged in by tanned arms and thick thighs. The smell of grass and mud invades his nose before the scent of Frederick's sweat overcomes it. He feels overwhelmed by the other man, covered and protected, even if they both are drunk on bootleg moonshine and cheap whiskey. 

" We deserve each other," Will says in between kisses. The skin of his throat is burned from Frederick's stubble, and he can see the reciprocal rawness on the skin above him. " Hannibal brought us together. He cut us open, left us with matching scars."

Frederick presses their hips together clumsily. They struggle to rid each other of shirts, wriggle out of pants and shorts. When he speaks, Frederick's breath is hot against Will's clavicle. "Couple of suckers we've been."

" But we're alive."

" Hannibal Lecter likes you this way." 

Will meets Frederick's eyes, where some of the alcohol induced fog has cleared, and scoffs. " I don't fucking care how he likes me." 

Frederick's hand is inside his boxers and Will knows that fucking on the first date is frowned upon, he knows that they've done little more than a peck on the lips, but he just can't bring himself to care. Right now, he wants Frederick, without hesitation. For once, Will feels that he has a clear and easy choice before him.

" I care how you like me," Will clarifies when Frederick's tongue leaves his mouth. He can see a bare sliver of hazel irises around the circumference of Frederick's blown pupils. " Tell me. Please, Frederick." 

" Like this, underneath me." Frederick's fingertips glide over the bumps of his ribs. They stop short of his scar, skip it entirely when Will's labored breathing hiccups, and continue downward to teasingly caress the underside of his cock. Will sighs when the light touches turns into a firm grip. He has to focus to comprehend Frederick's breathy words over the rush of blood from his head to his groin. " I like you pliant, curling into each kiss, taking anything I give you."

" Anything," he agrees. " I trust you."

Frederick hesitates. Will feels the slow stroking come to a halt. The unoccupied hand cups Will's jaw in a gentle movement, thumb tracing the corner of his lips and index finger pressing into the joint of his mandible. " I won't hurt you."

" I know." The muscles of his abdomen relax. Will gives himself a moment to lean into Frederick's palm before he sits up to press their lips together again. It's softer, less feral for a short minute, and then Will's hands are snaking to Frederick's hips, pressing their bodies together once more. From mouth to thigh, their bare skin slides and slots into a seamless line of heat and sweat. 

Will ends the conversation, because he's not in the national park to pontificate Hannibal's actions, he's here to escape them. Frederick doesn't seem the slightest bit heartbroken about the change of pace.

It's difficult for Will to care about the little details as their kisses turn sloppy and filthy, pre cum mixing from each of them as it smears across their bellies. He doesn't think of the lack of lubricant until his knees are by his chest, and then it's not worth the trouble--Frederick has his face between Will's cheeks, tongue licking thick stripes over his hole, pressing hot and wet past the ring of muscles.

He spits in his hand, reaches below his own body to grip Frederick's shaft, stroke over the throbbing flesh. More seminal fluid spills into his fingers, enough that he presses his foot to Frederick's shoulder, pushing the perfect mouth away even as his body strains for more.

" Fuck me," he begs. Frederick is facing him again, body snug between his thighs. Will nudges his ass back into the slick, spongy head of Frederick's cock with a frustrated grunt.

Large, uncalloused hands hold his hips firm to the ground, leaving no room for leverage. " You want this?" 

Frederick's breath is hot against his cheek, the tendons in his hands flexing to retain control. Will can feel everything, the touches white hot and searing with the tease of pleasure. He's desperate, needy. The promise of relief, release from the hold that Hannibal has had on both of them has sent him into a hungry craze.

" I want you," Will confirms. Frederick will set him free.

" Okay." 

With his nerves alight, Will feels everything. He notices the uncomfortable dirt and twigs abrading his back, the cool whisper of a breeze snaking between their limbs, and most prominently, the girth of Frederick's cock stretching and splitting him open. The slide is slow and long until Will feels a whine high in his throat, the sound enough to provoke Frederick into burying himself to the hilt with one firm jerk of his hips. 

" Oh, fuck. Frederick, please."

Sweat drips from Frederick's nose, landing salty on Will's lips. The thrusts remain slow, steady movements, teasing at his prostate. He digs his heel into Frederick's shoulder blade. Fullness isn't enough, reaching down to tug at his own leaking member doesn't help.

" Jesus, come on."

The rhythm slows--exactly what Will doesn't want--and then reluctantly stutters to a halt. " I don't want to hurt you," Frederick repeats, his lips trembling against Will's neck.

" You're not going to. You can't. Please, I won't break."

Frederick starts to stammer but Will can't stand to hear it. He doesn't want to listen to how Hannibal shattered him to pieces in the past, to how fragile they both still are. Will wants to be rebuilt from the rubble and earth that surrounds them, the ashes smoldering beside them. He needs Frederick to catalyze his healing.

The words don't come, they stick in his throat and disintegrate against the back of his teeth. Will brings their lips together once more. He insistently guides Frederick's hand to the knotted tissue that slices across his abdomen, presses the fingertips into raised flesh. His own leave, to dip into the crater of Frederick's cheek.

" You won't break me," Will breathes into Frederick's mouth. " We won't break each other."

It's enough to make Frederick start rocking his hips again, their bodies slowly sliding across the ground. Will shifts the position of his hips until he can feel pressure near his prostate. He gives an encouraging moan, hole clenching down on the cock so deep inside of him, and finally Frederick responds.

Will's hand is batted away by Frederick's much softer one. Will keens his pleasure, body warring between pushing back to the heavy stretch of Frederick's cock or bucking into the tight grip encompassing his own weeping erection. 

Their panting and groaning bounces off of the trees, echoing into the cool air. Will feels goosebumps raise on his forearms, his face flushing, the muscles of his pelvic floor tensing impossibly tighter. He's so close, tendrils of orgasm licking up his sacrum from the bundle of nerves that Frederick continuously pounds against. Despite his lengthy hiatus from sex, Will wants to make the moment last. He knows that there will be more, that Frederick won't just fuck him and leave. The thought doesn't ease his fear, doesn't provide him with any comfort.

" Let go," Frederick coaxes. His voice is gravelled and roughened, hair a sweaty mess. Will looks him in the eye. It's clear that there is no obstacles between them. All of the barriers are broken. No hidden motives or carefully constructed facades. 

Will sees his own desires reflected in the inflated blackness of Frederick's pupils. Having his feelings reciprocated eases the tension across the tendons and joints, releases the constriction of his rib cage around heart and lungs, and forces a stuttering moan from his lips. His pleasure focuses to a pulsing point low in his abdomen and then expands rapidly, the throbbing waves crashing where Frederick's cock thrusts into him, where Frederick's hand wrings orgasm from his aching erection.

Suddenly, release is so simple.

Cum lands hot and sticky across their navels, the girth of Frederick's cock unfathomably larger as his hole spasms. He feels every twinge of muscle, all of the aborted thrusts that press deeper into him, before Frederick finally stills with a hushed gasp.

They realize simultaneously how careless they were. Semen slicks down Will's thighs when Frederick pulls free. He doesn't care.

" Shit," Frederick curses at the mess, dabbing at Will's ass with his discarded shirt as if it would reverse the decision. " God fucking damnit."

" Shut up."

" I'm clean, I swear."

" Shut up," Will repeats. He grabs the hair at the scruff of Frederick's neck, smashing their lips together. " I don't care."

He pushes Frederick off of him and rises onto unsteady feet. Dried leaves and clumps of dirt fall to the ground in the wake of his departure. Will leaves his clothing rumpled in the dust, crawls into the cozy warmth of the tent. Frederick isn't far behind. 

Sleeping bags and quilts pillow against his backside, soothing the scrapes left by the earth. Frederick lays on his side, facing him. The alcohol is a slow ebb and tide in his bloodstream, not the roaring crash of before. Sobered, Will still feels the same, he still wants to continue whatever is going on between them. 

Shadows of the embers smoldering outside dance across the canvas, along Frederick's jawline. Will follows the flickering with his fingertips. For a while there are no words between them, no necessity. 

" Can we stay here for another day or two?" 

The request is surprising to Will, but he cracks a wide smile. " Sure. Maybe move closer to the waterfalls tomorrow. I have a backcountry license." 

" Are you gonna catch and cook dinner for me?" Frederick's lips split into a cheeky grin. Will shuffles closer, hooks his leg around Frederick's. They press close to one another, for warmth and comfort.

“ If that’s what you want.”

\---

The sun rises steadily, making the thin fabric of the tent glow with morning light. Will’s eyes flutter open when the warmth becomes too much, humidity rising. He vaguely registers the dried semen flaking off his thighs when he shifts within the embrace of Frederick’s arms. The zipper to the tent is close enough that he can reach it without completely waking the man beside him. 

Cool air rushes into their space. Frederick nuzzles closer to him, snoring softly. Will gently traces the bumpy web of scarring on his face. 

They both know Hannibal is out in the world, somewhere, biding his time. Waiting for Will to follow him, planning on the eventuality of their reunion. Will looks at the relaxation on Frederick’s face, smoothing his muscles. He remembers how calm, at ease he felt when falling asleep the night before, and again when waking.

Will considers what his actions will be when Hannibal murders again, and realizes that his own future is inexplicably twisted with Frederick’s. It’s a thought that he falls asleep too, one that he wakes up thinking about once more. 

When Frederick guides him to roll onto his stomach, he doesn’t hesitate. To be bound to Frederick, dependent on one another, is not such a bad thing after all.


End file.
